


Sir

by ineswrites



Series: Hydra Trash Meme fills [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gunplay, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, M/M, Other, Referenced Breathplay, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 01:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13203207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: Jack’s heart skips a beat even before he hears Rumlow’s voice say, “You know, there were many things throughout our friendship that made me question what I really know about you, but this? This takes the fucking cake.”





	Sir

**Author's Note:**

> The year is ending so it's time to own up to some trash.
> 
> Prompt: Rollins has a ‘thing’ for his Commanding officer. It’s not a particularly nice ‘thing’, because he’s not a particularly nice person.  
> He’s never going to be able to do anything with Rumlow himself, but that’s okay – SHIELD has extremely sophisticated LMDs, and they’re *even better* than the real thing, because he can do absolutely anything to them. He’s not constrained by considerations of safety, sanity or consent, and he can program them to react any way he wants them to, based on how the mood strikes him.  
> Everything about the setup is great – up until the day Rumlow walks in on one of his little ‘scenes’.  
> Up to you how you’d want the rest of it to pan out – whether Rumlow joins Rollins and gets involved in the ‘fun’, or merely decides to direct and observe from the sidelines.
> 
> Warning for a really pathetic Jack Rollins. To avoid confusion, Jack refers to the LMD as "Brock" and to his commanding officer as "Rumlow".

SHIELD staff stumbles and walks into the walls in their hurried attempts to get out of Jack Rollins’ way as he rushes down the corridor. Normally, he’d smirk, but today he’s late, and it gives him an even stronger serial killer vibe than usual. He’s holding two paper cups that burn his hands, but he just clenches his teeth and curses inside his head instead of stopping to adjust his grip. He’s already close to Rumlow’s office, no point in stalling and risking his commanding officer being even more cranky than he must already be.

Jack shakes his head to himself. It’s not even his job to bring Rumlow coffee. He’s his second in command, not a fucking assistant. But it’s something Rumlow expects of him, so. Here he is.

“Hey, you,” he barks at a random agent who has a misfortune of standing the closest to Rumlow’s office. “Open the door.”

The agent makes a pained expression, presses the stack of papers he’s carrying to his chest and opens the door. Jack takes a deep breath and walks in calmly, to make it look like he didn’t just run up the stairs and down the corridor to bring Rumlow his daily fix of caffeine like an overeager rookie.

“Rumlow,” he says, looking at his commander.

Rumlow is sitting at the computer, typing. There’s a huge stack of papers on his desk that has been gathering there since last week. It’s one of these rare mornings when Rumlow can actually take care of some paperwork in peace, instead of preparing for a mission or training the rookies.

“Finally,” he mutters, not looking up from his task.

Jack approaches the desk and sets one of the cups down, fixing Rumlow with a piercing gaze. Rumlow keeps typing, not sparing him a glance.

_“Will you fucking look at me?”_

_Brock’s glassy eyes look up at him through his long eyelashes. He’s kneeling on a concrete floor, Jack towering over him like a tree._

_“What did you do wrong today?” Jack asks._

_“I didn’t thank for my coffee.” The answer is always the same. Rumlow never thanks for his coffee._

“Will I get your report anytime soon?”

Jack blinks the memory away. “I already wrote it last night. I’ll send it right away.”

“Couldn’t you do that last night?”

He watches Rumlow, a litany of insults trapped in his mouth. “I finished it late. I wanted to revise it before sending.”

“Well, hurry the fuck up then. I already got two mails from Sitwell chewing me out, and it’s just eight fifteen.”

Jack nods, not that it matters, because Rumlow doesn’t look away from the screen of his computer. “Yes, sir.”

He leaves the office, his hand clenching the paper cup so hard it bends, the lid falls off and coffee spills over his hand, burning his fingers and sinking into his glove.

 

\--

 

There’s a corridor on the minus second floor in the Triskelion that is unused. It’s filled with doors leading to rooms that are generally called ‘storage’, and hold a variety of things, things no one has any use of anymore. Nobody has any business being in this part of the floor, even janitors don’t clean it anymore, leaving dust to gather on the concrete.

That is what everybody thinks. The truth is, the corridor is _almost_ unused.

There is a room filled with old computer equipment and LMDs. They’re not faulty, just expired – people age, LMDs do not. The newest haven’t been used in ten years, the oldest – almost forty. They’re turned off, unaware, standing, sitting and lying against the walls, staring ahead with the cameras in their glassy eyes. All but one.

The LMD turns to look when Jack walks in and closes the door. Immediately, it kneels down, its head bowed. A rush of _something_ goes through Jack, this feeling he can’t name, that makes him first cold, then hot, leaves his skin covered in goosebumps and gives him a boner. He walks up to the LMD, grabs a handful of hair and tugs up. Painted hazel eyes stare into his, pupils go wide as the cameras adjust.

Jack learnt about the existence of Brock Rumlow’s LMD about two years ago, by sheer coincidence, from Rumlow himself. He told Jack he was glad it wasn’t used anymore, because “lemme tell you, it feels fucking creepy, man”, and where to find it, unaware of what that information was doing to Jack’s mind.

The LMD is eleven or twelve years old – he’s not sure – and looks a little different – less wrinkles, more hair, less muscle – but it’s alright. It’s even better, really. Makes it look more innocent. More submissive. More eager to please.

Makes it look weak, no matter it’s made of metal, which means it’s about ten times stronger and heavier than Jack. It doesn’t matter, because all that strength is useless with the LMD’s current programming. It’s Jack who has power over it. It’s Jack who’s in control.

“Aren’t you pretty like this,” he mutters, “on your knees, waiting for my orders?”

“Sir.” There’s a tremble in the LMD’s voice – a voice that so perfectly imitates Rumlow’s – and its lower lip quavers.

Jack’s hard-on tents up his pants, presses against the zipper. He pops the button open, but doesn’t proceed. Not yet.

He lets go of the hair – that is so exactly like Rumlow’s, he has to wonder if it isn’t actually _his_ – and cups the side of the LMD’s face. It fits perfectly in his large hand. He caresses the skin with his fingers, presses in, feeling the hard metal underneath. Punching that face is out of the question, no matter how much he wants to. It’s alright – Jack’s creative. There are other things he can do that are even more satisfying.

He fingers the metal choke collar around Brock’s neck. Once, when they were sparring, Jack managed to get Rumlow in a choke hold. The memory of the sounds Rumlow made then kept Jack awake many a night. The LMD makes the exact same ones when they play with the collar, and it makes Jack wonder if SHIELD recorded Rumlow choke to make it possible.

They’re not gonna use the collar today, and Jack considers taking it off, but leaves it on in the end. He quite likes how Brock looks in it.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“Because I wronged you, sir.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t thank for my coffee.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t look at you.”

“And?”

“And I treated you like a pushover, without the respect you deserve.”

Jack grins. “And?”

Brock hesitates as he searches for the right instructions in his memory. Jack rarely asks for four reasons, hardly ever for more. It’s been a while, and there’s a lot of commands and data to rifle through. Probably some trash, as well. Like the memories of whatever he does when he’s left all by himself. Jack doesn’t know and doesn’t care what happens to Brock after he’s done having fun with him and leaves the room, as long as he remains inside.

“Well?” Jack prompts. “Does your memory need cleaning?”

How he wishes he could do that to Rumlow. Wipe his memory, his sense of self, and brainwash him into being his little slave, eager to fulfill his every wish.

But this, this is good, too. Maybe even better. He likes to think it’s better.

“I flirted with a coworker,” Brock says finally.

The threat of cleaning his hard drive always works, almost as if he’s afraid of it. Jack knows it’s not true, that a computer program can’t feel fear, but hell if the thought isn’t arousing.

“And why is it wrong to flirt with other people?” Jack asks.

This time, Brock responds immediately, “Because it makes them think I’m available, but I’m not. I belong to you. I do everything you say. I was made to please you.”

Jack’s breath hitches and he closes his eyes. He’s back in Rumlow’s office. He sniffs his glove – it’s long dried off, but it still smells of coffee.

“Repeat.”

“I belong to you. I do everything you say. I was made to please you,” says Rumlow’s voice.

Jack doesn’t know where that thing for Rumlow comes from. He’s not sure what that thing _is_. It’s not love. He knows love, from the old times, when he was a better person, and what he feels is different. It’s not a simple thirst for power either. He already has power. He’s a commanding officer. He has a reputation that makes people jump out of his way in fear, that makes them follow his orders without a question. Not that it’s not a nice feeling. But it doesn’t sate his hunger for having Rumlow kneeling before him, for having him give up his free will, his body, his _life_ for Jack.

Jack opens his eyes, the LMD’s face comes into focus. He thumbs its soft lips, presses inside. Its mouth is dry. LMDs can’t produce saliva. Nor tears.

It’s better that way. Less mess to clean up after.

It would be the LMD cleaning it, but still.

“You were a very bad boy,” Jack says and there it is again, the rush of that _feeling_ for calling Brock a “bad boy”. “But I’ll let you make it up to me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What would you do for me?”

“I’d kill for you.”

“I have a whole team that kills for me. Do better.”

“I’d die for you.”

Jack smirks. “I’ll let you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Jack unholsters his handgun. “Open your mouth.”

Brock complies and Jack slips the barrel in, pulls back and presses forward, fucking his mouth with it. Brock moans and closes his eyes, and Jack pulls his hair.

“No, keep looking at me.”

Brock’s eyes snap back open. “I’m sorry, sir.” LMDs don’t need to move their lips to talk.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Jack removes the safety and fires. The LMD jerks and slumps backwards. Jack lets out a gasp and palms himself with his free hand as pleasure builds in his lower abdomen. It’s time.

He clicks the safety back on, puts the gun down on one of the old, dusty desks. He takes off his gloves and sets them beside the gun. He pulls his pants and underwear down, and sits on a chair. He opens the drawer, takes lube he left there a couple of months ago, and coats his heavy erection in it. He keeps teasing himself, not stroking, but just pressing his hand there, keeping himself hard as he studies the body on the floor. Brock’s eyes are still open, and they look so dead and pretty.

Real death is never pretty. There’s often piss and shit involved, blood has one of the worst stenches, and the body swells. The “death” of the LMD is clean, like in the PG rated movies. No blood. No disfigurement. If not for the open eyes, Brock would look like he was sleeping.

Jack listens to the clank of metal as the LMD fixes itself. Soon, it starts moving, pulls itself up to its knees.

“Come here.” Jack gestures to his lap.

Brock gets up and approaches him. Jack stops him with a hand on his chest.

“Strip.”

Brock obeys and soon he’s naked in Jack’s lap. Jack runs his hands along the smooth, warmed up skin, savoring the feel of it. It’s easy to imagine the metal underneath is muscle and bones. His breath turns shaky as he cups the curve of Brock’s ass, and slowly pushes one finger in. The inside is also covered with skin, soft and delicate, and the hole adjusts its width to accommodate him. These details really make Jack wonder what the LMD was used for before. No wonder Rumlow thinks it’s creepy.

Jack pulls out his finger, grabs his dick. “Come here,” he mutters.

Brock moves even closer, so their chests brush, and he lowers himself onto Jack’s cock. Jack feels metal plates shift around him as he pushes in, the slight squeeze of it drawing a moan from his lips.

“Oh God, you’re perfect,” he gasps.

He starts rocking his hips right away, not having to wait for Brock to adjust. Brock moves with him, meeting his thrusts, and they fall into a satisfying rhythm. Jack’s too hot in his SHIELD-issued shirt, so he takes it off and drops it on the floor. Now they’re both fully naked, and Brock’s skin feels almost real against his, only it’s much cooler and drier compared to Jack’s heated and sweaty.

Suddenly, Brock stills. It takes Jack a moment to realize something must have triggered the abort command. He looks up at him with a frown, but Brock’s face is turned towards the door.

Jack’s heart skips a beat even before he hears Rumlow’s voice say, “You know, there were many things throughout our friendship that made me question what I really know about you, but this? This takes the fucking cake.”

Jack’s face is burning when he turns towards the source of the voice. Sure enough, Rumlow is standing in the doorway with his arms crossed on his chest. He raises an eyebrow when Jack meets his gaze. Jack waits for the ground to open and swallow him, but it doesn’t happen.

“Rumlow,” he manages out, his voice tight. “Do you, uhm. Need me to—”

“Oh, no, no, go on. Don’t let me distract you.”

At the words “go on”, the LMD resumes moving, and a surprised moan falls from Jack’s lips. Jack is torn between shutting his eyes and watching Rumlow’s every move. He quickly decides on the latter as Rumlow drops his arms by his sides and walks inside the room. He closes the door, and Jack hears a click of the lock. Rumlow crosses the room, his eyes never tearing away from the scene before him. His face is expressionless and Jack has no clue about what he’s gonna do.

One thing is certain: nothing good.

Rumlow passes him and stops right behind him, at one of the computers. The citrusy scent of his body spray hits Jack’s nose, and that in addition to the LMD bouncing on Jack’s cock makes him groan loud enough he almost misses Rumlow’s words.

“You know, this thing doesn’t act like me at all. Somebody musta messed with its programming,” he says conversationally. “Lemme fix that. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on the full Rumlow experience.”

Jack can’t see what Rumlow is doing, but as he hears the mouse clicking, he just knows he opened a CLI for the LMD. He doesn’t dare protest, helplessly listening to Rumlow type, waiting for what is to come with sweaty hands clenching the sides of the chair and hammering heart.

The LMD moves fast, faster than Jack has ever witnessed, but even if it didn’t, he doesn’t think he’d try to fight it. It raises itself off his cock, grabs him by the shoulder and throws him on his stomach. Metal hands grab his hips in a vice-like grip.

“Now, that’s more like me,” Rumlow mutters, but Jack can barely hear him through the ringing in his ears.

The pleasure that was pooling in the pit o his stomch just a moment ago is quickly replaced by panic as he feels the LMD’s dick press against his ass. A litany of “no”s and “please”s falls from his mouth, his voice high and shaky and pathetic.

And just like that, the LMD stills. Jack draws in a shaky breath, his whole body trembles. He’s not sure if the LMD stopped because of Rumlow’s new programming, or if he still has some sort of control over it.

Rumlow sighs loudly and falls on the chair Jack has just occupied. He rests his feet on Jack’s back, the dirty heels of his combat boots digging painfully into Jack’s spine. Jack shifts uncomfortably.

“Stay still,” Rumlow orders coldly and Jack stops moving. Rumlow sighs again. “Just what am I gonna do with you, Rollins?”

Jack swallows, trying to calm his nerves, which, in his current situation, is no easy task. He focuses on the cracks in the concrete floor – not that he’s in a position to look at anything else.

“I’m sorry,” he says pathetically.

“Are you? For what? Misusing hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of government equipment? Or being caught misusing hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of government equipment?”

Jack doesn’t respond, which for Rumlow is an answer enough.

“Thought so,” he says. “You know, this room is full of decoys that are actual sex toys, made solely with honeypot missions in mind, and yet you chose to mess with mine. That makes me wonder. Is it personal?” He shifts one of his feet onto Jack’s ribs as he leans in to take a better look at him.

It’d be so easy to just lie, tell Rumlow it was a coincidence. That he wandered into this room by an accident, and Rumlow’s LMD was already on.

But he can’t lie to Rumlow. He just can’t.

Rumlow presses down as the silence prolongs, the pattern of his sole imprinting in Jack’s skin, and Jack barely holds a yelp in.

“It is, it is personal,” he admits, and he hates how whiny his voice sounds.

Rumlow leans back, buzzing his lips. “Pity. See, Rollins, I like you. Up until this point, I was willing to let it slide. But now, it’s personal for me, too. Maybe I should let it finish.”

The LMD shifts against Jack’s ass, and his heart starts racing again.

“No. Sir. It’s, it’s not like that. I. I’d do anything for you. Please.” Words spill out of Jack’s mouth on their own accord, and he’s not sure if he’s making any sense.

“Like what?”

“I’d…” Jack swallows, feels sweat run down his forehead. “I’d die for you, sir.”

He half expects Rumlow to force a gun inside his mouth, not to kill him, but to scare him. Punish him for what he did.

Rumlow scoffs. “Die.” He sounds unimpressed. “Dying’s easy.”

Jack starts trembling again as the soles of Brock’s boots grind against his bones. If dying’s easy, what isn’t?

“Anything, sir,” he whimpers.

Rumlow is silent as the LMD lets go of Jack’s hips. Its footsteps echo in the room as it walks away. Jack can see it gather its clothes and put them on out of the corner of his eye. He slumps a little, relief flooding his veins.

It’s gonna be okay. Rumlow believes him. Jack will go for another coffee run and they’re gonna be okay.

He slumps even more when Rumlow takes his feet off Jack’s back. Tension seeps out of Jack’s muscles, fatigue setting in.

“Is that what you want from me?” Rumlow asks and Jack tenses again. “Have me bounce on your dick?”

Tremors of pleasure shake his body just from those words alone, those words said in Rumlow’s smoky voice. Rumlow can definitely tell, what with Jack’s cock hardening again. His stomach clenches in shame, but there’s pleasure building right below, and he can’t help but _hope_ , hope that Rumlow would, somehow…

“Answer the question.”

“I want you,” Jack whispers.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

Jack swallows and licks his lips. They feel hot against his dry tongue.

“I want you,” he says just a little louder, his voice rough. “On my cock.”

“Look me in the eyes and say it again.”

It takes all of his willpower to sit up. Rumlow regards him with a gaze so cold, he almost shivers, and immediately looks away.

“My eyes are up here.”

His face is so hot he could fry eggs on it. His eyes sting as he forces them to look straight into Rumlow’s.

“I want you. On my cock.”

“I don’t think you fully understand what you’re asking for.” The sound of Rumow’s zipper is awfully loud in Jack’s ears. Rumlow pulls out his cock, starts stroking it. “I can make you, though.”

Jack’s eyes widen and desperate words spill out his mouth again, a mixture of “no”s, “sir”s and “please”s that don’t form any sentence.

“What’s the matter?” Rumlow asks. “You just said you’d do anything for me. Were you lying? Saying what you thought I’d want to hear, hoping I’d go easy on you?”

Jack takes a calming breath, then another one. His hands tremble as he rests them on his thighs.

“I will,” he says, and he’s proud of how steady his voice sounds when inside he’s practically falling apart. “I don’t want to, but if you insist, I will.”

Rumlow leans in, the scent of his body spray surrounding Jack again.

“Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll let you go. I’m not even gonna tell on you, because frankly, I don’t think I can look Fury in the eye and recount what I just saw here with a straight face. But this is the last time you’ve been here, and trust me – you set a toe in this room, I’ll know about it. And if you do, no amount of begging will stop the hell I’m gonna put you through. Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Jack chokes out.

Rumlow pulls back again, tucks himself away. “Get outta my sight.”

Jack snatches his clothes at lightning speed and rushes out of the room as he stands. Only when he starts getting dressed in the elevator, he realizes that in his haste, he left his underwear behind.

 

\--

 

Jack keeps his eyes trained on the floor as he enters Rumlow’s office five minutes early.

“Your coffee, sir,” he croaks out, swiftly approaching the desk, and sets a paper cup down.

“Thank you, Rollins.”

Taken aback, Jack glances up and meets Rumlow’s gaze. The corners of his eyes crinkle in an amused smile.

He knows. He must have checked the recordings in the LMD’s memory.

He saw everything.

Rumlow’s smile widens as Jack’s face heats up. “Mission debrief at eight thirty. Gather the team.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack turns on his heel and hurries towards the door, feeling Rumlow’s stare digging into his back.

“Rollins.”

He stops and looks over his shoulder, trying to give his face a self-assured expression.

“Catch.”

Rumlow throws something at him and Jack catches it reflexively before realizing what it is. Speechless, he stares at his balled up underwear he left in the room on the minus second floor. Slowly, he looks up at Rumlow, who offers him a shit-eating grin. He swallows.

“Thank you, sir,” he mutters, and, red-faced, he leaves the office.


End file.
